


Gratitude

by thedevilchicken



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brandon Stark Lives, Chains, Forced Marriage, Glove Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: When new king Robert Baratheon has Jaime arrested and tried for the murder of Aerys Targaryen, Jaime expects to die. Ned Stark has other plans.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Ned Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 101
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



The doors to the Great Sept of Baelor opened and his executioner arrived.

"Well, of course," Jaime said, when he saw who it was that was approaching. It had had to be, really, and he supposed he'd have known that if he'd given it much thought, but who precisely was going to be the instrument of his demise was of much less importance to him than the idea he was meeting his demise at all. He hadn't supposed he'd be in anyone's good books for killing the king he'd sworn an oath to protect, with his own life if necessary, but he had to admit he hadn't expected to die for it. Honestly, after his arrest and extremely perfunctory trial, he'd expected his father to save him; he found the idea of Tywin riding to his rescue moderately abhorrent, but he supposed he liked the idea of death even less. But now here he was, barefoot and chained, in an itchy-scratchy tunic fashioned from something not much better than sackcloth, and Eddard Stark was going to have his head off. It turned out his dear father wasn't coming after all.

"So, how do you want me?" Jaime asked. "No chopping block? And in the sept, Stark? I wouldn't be surprised if the Septon makes you clean up afterwards. Wouldn't do to have bloodstains on view during services." 

They'd brought him up from the cells with his wrists and ankles shackled, and they still were. They'd made him kneel, then they'd run the chain from the thick iron ring at his neck to a pike that they hammered into the sept's stone floor. The chain wasn't long enough for him to kneel completely upright, which he supposed was the point; he had to pitch forward uncomfortably, almost bowing, which was a detail that the ever-so-superior Eddard Stark probably enjoyed. But Stark gave him a look that Jaime didn't understand, at least not in that particular moment, then he stepped away behind him. 

When Jaime felt his fingers at the back of his neck, when he felt the sharp tip of a blade against his skin, he half expected him to just put a dagger in and have done with it, just like that, no flair or fanfare; it would've been very Northern of him, he supposed, though sort of disappointing to make such an understated exit from the world. His father would have been ashamed of that, he thought, though he'd probably make some great tale of it when he used his son's death to raise Lannister resentment toward the kingdoms' new Baratheon rule. Except he'd overheard that Tywin had offered their oaf of a king his sister's hand. Maybe that was why the Lannister banners hadn't come: because Tywin would have a queen for a daughter and grandchildren who would sit on the Iron Throne, his eldest son could go to his death a kingslayer. 

He'd expected the edge of the Stark family greatsword, since they'd all heard the tales of how the great Northern lords were their own headsmen - maybe Brandon was the Stark in Winterfell but it would take him time to heal from the burns their dear departed king had given him and when Eddard had found him in the throne room, sitting there with the body of their mad old king, he'd been carrying Ice. It made sense that Robert had sent him to do it instead of Ilyn Payne; maybe he'd even asked him for the privilege. But Stark had a knife in his hand and even then he didn't push the blade in; what he did was slice the tunic that they'd put him in straight down the back. 

It wasn't a smooth motion - the knife's hilt caught the fabric and ripped it at least as much as it cut, until the sackcloth linen gaped and Jaime could feel the dark sept's chilly air on his bare skin. The candles really weren't doing much to warm the space - Jaime wasn't sure he'd ever known the sept be warm and not just dank and smoky, though Aerys had had grand plans to heat it - and when Stark pushed the torn fabric forward, so it fell down Jaime's arms and caught there at the shackles at his wrists and left him naked except for his hands, that was when he understood. 

"You're not here for my head, are you," he said, craning his neck to look back at him as he felt his mouth twist wryly. "You're here for the Rock." And Stark didn't say a word in response, but somehow the silence still spoke volumes. Silence wasn't denial, after all.

Stark pushed him down, one gloved hand pressed to each of Jaime's bare shoulders. He pushed him down onto his hands instead of just his knees so the chain at his neck finally hung down loose and clanked against the floor. He didn't take the gloves off and he didn't undress and Jaime really couldn't say he expected him to, considering the circumstances. Robert Baratheon was going to marry Cersei in some pretty public ceremony, if he hadn't done so already, and the fact was this: if Ned Stark had him, there in the sept, private except for the witness it required, that was as good as marrying him, too. It certainly explained the lack of crowd to see him off; maybe Stark was concerned about performing for an audience, given the sept was very nearly empty. The high septon was there, somewhere, and likely his attendants, but no one else had come.

Stark didn't take the gloves off. When he produced a pretty little jar made of coloured glass - probably Robert's, Jaime thought, given the man's proclivities - and dripped it against Jaime's bare cleft, he was still wearing his gloves. When he ran his fingers down the oiled crack of his arse, his leather gloves were still in place. His gloved fingers rubbed against Jaime's hole and Jaime felt his face flush hot in the chilly air; he liked how it felt, but he certainly didn't like that he liked it. And the gloves made Stark's fingers thicker when he pushed one of them inside him, knuckle-deep, the leather slick, and fucked him with it briefly. He hadn't needed to do that - he could've just had him, straightforwardly, no preamble - so Jaime could only surmise he thought he'd be embarrassed. He was. It also made him angry, for all the good that did him. 

Then Stark pulled back. He bared his cock; Jaime knew because he felt it rest against his arse, bare and thick and hot. He felt Stark's gloved hands part his cheeks and nudge the head of his oiled erection up against his hole. So this was it, he thought: instead of death, or the Wall, or unlikely forgiveness, his fate was to take Ned Stark's cock and give him Casterly Rock in the process. Tywin would hate it, at least, which he supposed was something. 

When Stark entered him, Jaime's cheeks were burning. When Stark gripped his hips and pushed in until his clothed thighs hit Jaime's bare ones, Jaime could have torn the man's throat out with his fucking teeth and then at least someone's blood would've been spilled, if not the one's he'd expected. He could hear Stark's hissing breath, oddly personal in the huge, impersonal sept. He could feel him inside him, so long and thick and hard he might as well have fucked him with the old Stark greatsword in its sheath. Jaime's knees ached from the stone floor and his palms chafed against it roughly and he hated himself for the fact he couldn't help but be aroused. Or perhaps that was a first and far from last _fuck you_ to Eddard Stark - he could fuck him, he could force himself on him like this, and force himself on the Lannister inheritance because of it, but he couldn't tell him what to do. Not now and not ever. If he thought he'd find Jaime Lannister a meek and biddable spouse, he'd made a bigger mistake than any Jaime ever had. 

Jaime finished first, on purpose, oddly balanced so he could bring one shackled hand down to his cock and stroke it; his come on the floor of the sept was something, he thought, even if it wasn't blood to mark the place he'd been. Jaime felt his hole pull tight around Stark's cock, again, _again_ , and he didn't try to make it stop, like he was goading him. When Stark came in him after that, stifling some kind of sound against his gloved hand, the high septon was there as a witness; he wasn't watching but once Stark had pulled back out, he called the septon to make a judgement: Ned Stark's come was dripping out of Jaime's aching hole, which was all the evidence of consummation that could ever be required. Then Stark swung his sword at the chain that bound Jaime to the floor, and the second stroke broke it. He squatted to cut the ruined tunic from his wrists with his knife. And Jaime, still shackled hand and foot, rose up again when Stark did. He met Stark's eye. Stark looked away.

"Your cloak, my lord," Jaime said, and Ned frowned just a moment, before he pulled the cloak from around his own shoulders and wrapped it around Jaime's. They left the sept together, side by side, as they would be from then until death parted them. And, in Stark's borrowed rooms inside the Red Keep, he produced a key and finally removed Jaime's shackles. When Jaime washed away the come from between his cheeks, Stark looked away and Jaime laughed - such modesty considering what he'd just done. Ned Stark would be Warden of the West one day, while his brother had the North, but it seemed he couldn't bear the thought of how he'd got there.

It was after his sister's wedding that he found out what had happened: Robert was drunk, as usual, at the feast that followed the ceremony, and told him if he'd had his way then he'd be dead. Jaime recalls returning to the table, and how Ned flinched when he slipped his hand up high over his thigh, but he didn't make him stop. He recalls how he winced when Jaime came into his room that night, but he didn't make him leave. Now every night, they share a room. Jaime whispers all the filthy things that he can conjure while he touches him beneath the sheets, and Ned has never said no.

Ned Stark saved his life, and Jaime supposes he's not ungrateful for it. But that doesn't mean that he'll let him forget.


End file.
